


Back for Good

by Reaping



Series: Artsy April [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergent, Decorating a house, Future Fic, M/M, Party, Pre-Slash, Stiles Stilinski & Lydia Martin brOTP, Stupid shit, also like a teensy bit of slash, but like, i guess, it probably doesn't need a teen rating but whatever, moving home, not really but you know, probably if I ever fleshed this out, right at the beginning, seriously they are my favorite best friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-30 22:06:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6443698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reaping/pseuds/Reaping
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>April 2nd Prompt: Fashion</p><p>"Tight is a good look for you, a shirt with Cartman on it is not.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Back for Good

**Author's Note:**

> I'm doing a lovely challenge with some friends called Artsy April. They'll be doing art, but since I cannot draw or paint or sculpt or do basically anything art-related to save my life, I'm doing a daily fic. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> If I missed tags let me know. Concrit is always welcome and appreciated.

“So you’re back?” She cocks her hip against the door, ankles crossed and arms folded across her chest. She tilts her head, flicking her strawberry locks over her shoulder as she does, eyebrow raised while she waits for an answer. Stiles remembers why he thought he loved her for all those years.

“Yeah, I’m back.”

“For good?”

“Yeah.” He watches her glance around his room, taking in the astounding lack of changes. “Waystation. My house closes next week. I bought a house. I’m back.”

“Good.” A genuine smile breaks the stoic expression on her face and she launches herself at him. He catches her easily, reflexes better after all these years, spins her around. She laughs before he sets her gently back on her feet. “We’re having a party.” He just nods, he’s known Lydia for years – there’s really no point trying to tell her no when she decides something. Besides, a party will be good. He’s missed everyone.

***

His house closes on a Tuesday; Lydia shows up bright and early that morning with a notepad. She’s in leggings and walking shoes, hair pulled back and makeup light.

“Alright, let’s see what you need.”

“Lydia, the house just closed, I don’t have to buy everything today.”

“I disagree, I told you – we’re having a party. Did I not mention we’re having a party here?” He unlocks the door and shows her in. She goes from room to room, checking the lights and the blinds and the fixtures, making notes, making sketches. If she wasn’t a brilliant mathematician, she could easily rule the interior design market. He takes her to the storage he’d rented and she vetoes most of his furniture. It would be a blow to his ego except he knew it would happen. He doesn’t even get to keep his bed. He loved that bed. They spend two days going to furniture stores and arguing with sales people – well, Lydia spends two days arguing, he just stands there and waits until she needs him to swipe his debit card. It only hurts a little to watch his savings disappear; mostly it feels good to know he can afford to furnish a house, _his house_. They pay for delivery and set-up, extra for it all to be rushed. Lydia shows up every morning to help supervise, to make sure all the little things like pillows and picture frames (empty until they unpack the things she did let him keep from his storage) are put in the right places. He falls into his new bed every night, exhausted but happy. By Friday night, everything is there – shiny new appliances, brand new furniture that matches (and god, he hasn’t had that since a couple of years after his mom passed – when something needed replacing at the Stilinski household, they just got whatever was cheapest and met their needs). Lydia stays that night, cracking a bottle of wine while they dig through the photo albums, picking out the ones for each room, laughing over the memories. They fall asleep surrounded by happy memories – and when they wake up, they only regret sleeping on the floor a little bit. Lydia makes the coffee and they spend another hour waking up and putting the pictures they selected into the frames, hanging them around the house.

“One more shopping trip and then we’re good I think.”

“What could we have possibly missed, Lyds?”

“Don’t call me that, you know I hate that.”

“I know you pretend to hate it Lyds.” He smirks as she smacks him in the arm.

“It’s not for the house, it’s for tonight. We need food and booze. Also, you need something to wear.”

“Tonight?”

“Stiles, I told you, we’re having a party. And I will be damned if I let you wear something you’ve been wearing for the last 6 years. Not after I spent all this time making your house look like it belongs to an adult.”

“Everything still fits.” He shifts from foot to foot, not sure why he’s arguing, except he didn’t argue about anything else and maybe he just can’t handle not pushing back a little. He’s an adult, but he’s still himself.

“Stiles.”

“Lydia.”

“Stiles.” He watches her nostrils flare and he still finds it cute, but he’s never ever going to tell her that.

“Lydia.” He cocks a brow at her, trying to out-stubborn her even though it’s literally never worked before.

“Stiles, get your ass upstairs and get changed. We’re shopping. Tight is a good look for you, a shirt with Cartman on it is not.” She glares and she’s tiny but she’s fierce and he does what she says.  They’re in her car headed towards the mall before he tries again.

“I don’t understand why it matters Lyds, I know everyone coming. Better, they know me. It’s not like they care about my fashion sense.”

“I care. Trust me, you’ll thank me later.”

They spend two hours trying on pants and shirts that look exactly the same to Stiles, half of them are the same colors. They finally settle on black skinny jeans that hug his ass and fade to a dark grey and a deep maroon V-neck that stretches tight across his chest and shoulders. He could cry from relief when they pay the sales lady. Until Lydia opens her mouth.

“Now for shoes.”

“No. Just, no. I’m putting my foot down. I like my Chucks, I’m wearing my Chucks. They look fine with everything.” She glares at him, seems on the verge of arguing, and then her phone beeps. She checks the message, sees the time, and nods like she’s doing him a favor before dragging him out of the mall to the grocery store. Thankfully that takes far less time – they do premade salads and sides, load up on chicken, steaks, and burgers. They all have experience feeding the pack, so it’s not hard to make sure they grab the right things. The booze is easy too, beer and wine and liquor and mixers. They load up her trunk and she helps him cart it all inside, dragging coolers outside and filling them up before she kisses her cheek and heads home to change. There’s about an hour before anyone is supposed to arrive so he spends a little time dumping the salads and sides into the bowls they’d bought on the second day of shopping, setting them out on the larger of the two picnic tables he’d purchased, before catching sight of the clock and hurrying upstairs for a quick shower before changing.

When he gets downstairs it’s to find everyone already out back – Lydia having let herself in with the key she insisted he make her (really, she insisted the entire pack get keys – or at least the ones who might need them, and he plans to pass them out later – they all have keys to each other’s homes just in case of an emergency, just because Beacon Hills has been mostly quiet the last couple of years doesn’t mean things don’t happen sometimes). He glances in the fridge to see that someone already took all the meat out and catches the faint trace of charcoal wafting in through the slightly open back door. He smiles to himself, glad the pack feels comfortable enough their first time at his house to make themselves completely at home, and also a little grateful that he doesn’t have to do it all himself because a week spent shopping and setting up his house with Lydia has basically worn him out. He steps out onto the back porch, smiling at his family scattered across the yard, and croaks out a slightly wavery “hey.” They all turn and cheer, which makes him blush just a little – he’s been home for over a week but this is the first time he’s gotten to see anyone besides Lydia and his dad – mostly because he’s been busy getting the house ready for this. He smiles at everyone, eyes catching on someone he didn’t expect. Derek Hale is standing in his back yard, bottle of beer in his hand, staring at Stiles like he hasn’t seen him in years – which would make sense because the last time he saw Derek, Derek was leaving a ruined church in Mexico with Braeden. His breath hitches, his heart too. Then Derek’s striding towards him, beer bottle dropping from his hand, expression unreadable. Stiles is about to open his mouth, no doubt to say something outrageously inappropriate, because his verbal control has always been shaky around Derek. Before he can embarrass himself though, there’s a hand wrapping around the back of his neck, pulling him forward and tilting his head to the side. Soft lips press against his and before he knows it there’s a tongue in his mouth. Derek’s tongue. Derek’s tongue is in his mouth. His brain shuts down for a minute, body taking over and kissing back, arms wrapping around the other man. When they finally break, he heaves in a breath, catches Derek’s eyes tracing down his body, admiring the way his clothes cling to him like a second skin. He flicks his gaze over Derek’s shoulder, sees Lydia watching them, mouthing “you’re welcome” and he leans forward a little, mouthing back a “thank you.” He thinks he catches his father muttering something that sounds like “finally” to Melissa, but before he can worry about that any further, Derek is leaning in again, pecking another soft kiss to his lips and mumbling a greeting against his mouth. He’ll never argue fashion with Lydia again.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Tumblr](http://jennthereaper.tumblr.com)


End file.
